“Scramble, B Squadron.”  At the first  squawk from the Tannoy, they were on their feet and hurtling out onto the tarmac.

Racing towards the Spitfires lined up on the runway, the young pilots leapt into their planes, and closed the hoods. In minutes they had morphed from a group of semi-prone idlers into killers.

In their early twenties; a few were already veterans of a dozen sorties; a couple newly arrived from training.

John Green was a veteran; a squadron leader at twenty-four. Minutes ago he had been dreaming of Angela, a pretty WAAF. As John taxied toward the runway, Angela moved a block on the big map in the Control Room, indicating B squadron was taking off and flying towards the enemy.

Last night they had been together. They had met two weeks ago, but life was short for a pilot. They loved as fast as they lived. It had been a peaceful night, and their time with one another had been perfect. They dared not plan a future together, but they knew their love was strong.

As John climbed to gain height advantage, the flight of German bombers, with its Messcherschmitt escort was crossing the coast. John was too occupied with his deadly mission; scanning the skies for sight of the enemy, to spare a thought for Angela.

There was a shout from Harry on the left wing. “Bandits dead ahead.”

The battle was joined. The bombers forged on towards their targets; the Messcherschmitts fought off the Spitfires. Dog-fights raged. John sent one opponent down in flames, then with a loud crunch, his plane was hit.

Hurtling downwards, he battled vainly with the bucking controls. The hood was stuck. He wrestled with it. He was perilously low when it jerked open. Floating down beneath his chute, he watched his Spitfire crash and explode into flames. He landed, and sank onto the grass, offering up a prayer of thanks.

The surviving German bombers had too little fuel left to reach their target—London — so they dropped their bombs on the aerodrome. The Control Room was hit. Angela was among the dead.